


not a moment i could choose

by neville



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bad Espionage, Computers, Espionage, M/M, References to Depression, depressed dirk, dirk is q, dirk is smart, dirk saves todd's life! yay!, dirk used to date thor, i watched james bond once, listening to music together, todd is in so much danger this whole fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 07:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18960286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: He finds Todd in a pickup truck in Georgia, on the security footage at a gas station. Brotzman is on the shorter side, with badly dyed hair, dressed as inconspicuously as possible in dull grey. There is a gun very obviously tucked into his waistband; the file had been right when it had suggested his inexperience was clear. He buys a chocolate bar out of the convenience store, and gets back in the truck.“Dare I mention that the man behind the counter could’ve been out to kill you?” Dirk asks, and he sees the car shake as Todd jumps, and snickers to himself.“Jesus,” says Todd. “Who the hell are you?”





	not a moment i could choose

**Author's Note:**

> written for the dirk gently beginner bang 2019! thank you so much to the community for being there for me while i was being dramatic about this fic <3 also, i am obviously not a spy, so please ignore all the terrible factual inaccuracies in this fic ...

**** They move Q branch to an old World War 2 bunker when Svlad takes over aged nineteen, all bright eyes and weather-worn leather jackets and the optimism of a boy ignoring the untimely death of the former incumbent. There are few other people working in Q branch, other hackers and engineers, all of whom ignore him, cite his age as inexperience and idiocy. 

Svlad makes a plaque in his first week, somewhat overwhelmed by the litany of equipment there in that bunker that he’s just  _ left _ with, to do as he pleases. This is so much more than his computer, or his kitchen counter and collection of screwdrivers. He has to be guided in each day, frisked and X-rayed and deemed safe. 

He sets it on the front of his desk when he’s done, as proud as he can be in a building full of people who don’t like him. It is his stand, his moment of soft strength. 

It reads, in neat cursive letters,  _ Dirk Gently _ . 

  
  


“I’m sorry, but with the utmost respect to you and your authority, sir, I don’t think I should be walking a double-oh through a mission. That isn’t my job. I’m not hired to tell trigger happy morons which corridor to walk through,” Dirk says curtly, deliberately not looking up at Riggins. “Tell, um, Estevez to do it.”

“I guess nobody told you that Estevez had been reassigned to field duty?” Riggins says, sounding tired, as if he hasn’t slept in days; Dirk, likewise, has scraped together just a few hours between obsessively hunting databases and CCTV and social media conversations and text logs searching for the mole in the CIA. Apparently British, which is why it’s his concern. He has a better case to point to a French spy so far, but he feels as if he’s missing something. He drums his fingers against his desk.

“It  _ would _ be nice if someone told me these things,” he sighs. 

“They still don’t like you?” 

“Even the new recruits seem to be trained to hate me. Which doesn’t quite seem fair, as I certainly haven’t done anything to them. I even order extra when I get pizza.” 

“Speaking of, Svlad, please try and at least be subtle when you pick the pizzas up and take them back to our top secret government agency.” 

“No offence, but it’s  _ very _ hard to be subtle while carrying your pizza and at least three other peace offering pizzas. I bought them donuts last week and even that didn’t seem to make anyone happier. Except me, of course.” He presses against the inside of his cheek with his tongue, toys with the mouse pad of his laptop, resists the urge to rub his temples or the bridge of his nose and groan with frustration. “I’ve been here for four years, General.” 

“That still only makes you twenty three. Nobody likes someone that’s smarter than them, younger than them, and more successful than them.” A case file lands on Dirk’s desk, heavy, worn round the edges and thick with paperwork and print-outs; Dirk leafs through photographs, catalogues, receipts, records. Black and white faces and names stare back at him, fake and real so close he can’t determine at a glance which is which; much like himself, he supposes. The line between Svlad and Dirk is one he doesn’t purport to understand or toe anymore. “One of our new agents is in trouble. Todd Brotzman. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.” 

“The American liaison,” says Dirk; the gossip reaches even his ears. Zimmerfield isn’t  _ averse _ to him, anyway, and will talk to him every now and then. “What happened?” 

“While pursuing the Rowdy Three, he came upon some particularly sensitive documents about Osmund Priest, the former crime leader working for the CIA. He’s now being pursued, but we need him - and that information - back here in one piece. Friedkin and Curlish are on route, but…” Riggins trails off, and taps the pages of the folder; he needs say nothing else, and within the matter of an hour, Dirk is wired into Brotzman’s earpiece, has him on radar and CCTV, and has read the case file. Even to him, a man renowned for getting out of skirmishes, it sounds bleak: the entirety of crime, it seems, are preparing to take down Todd. This is going to require Dirk’s utmost efforts. 

He switches on his speakers. 

  
  


He finds Todd in a pickup truck in Georgia, on the security footage at a gas station. Brotzman is on the shorter side, with badly dyed hair, dressed as inconspicuously as possible in dull grey. There is a gun very obviously tucked into his waistband; the file had been right when it had suggested his inexperience was clear. He buys a chocolate bar out of the convenience store, and gets back in the truck.

“Dare I mention that the man behind the counter could’ve been out to kill you?” Dirk asks, and he sees the car shake as Todd jumps, and snickers to himself. 

“Jesus,” says Todd. “Who the hell are you? You’re not - the voice from before.” 

_ Of course _ , thinks Dirk,  _ he didn’t even bother to ask the name of the person on the other end of the line. Typical spy.  _ He runs his tongue over his teeth, then decides that he doesn’t like the feeling, and plucks a lollipop from his desk drawer. “You’ve been upgraded,” Dirk says. “I’m Dirk. I’m your Quartermaster. Hello! Glad to meet you in the face of your impending death.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Todd sighs, pulling out of the station. “What’s a Quartermaster?” 

“I have no idea. They didn’t exactly give me a job description, but I oversee research and development, I suppose. I make exploding pens and that sort, but - on a bigger scale, since I’m the head honcho. Is there a ‘honcho’ that isn’t the head?” Dirk picks at the wrapper to his lollipop, twists his nail under the surface and pulls, pops it into his mouth and rolls it. “Keep out of the sight of security cameras. Priest will have hackers just as good as me - well, he hopes - and I can try shutting the cameras off, but they’ll notice soon enough, and use some maths, and figure out where you are, and probably shoot you, which wouldn’t be good for either of us.” 

“Is there a button so that I don’t have to listen to you?” 

Dirk grits his teeth for a moment, the sting all too familiar. “I could play my music louder, if you want to hear something else.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turns up the music, Sparks’s  _ Angst in my Pants _ ; it reminds him vaguely of being nineteen again, fresh in the department, elbows deep in the bowels of an Aston Martin that would come back to him in broken pieces, utterly alone in the middle of a bunker full of people, working futilely. He doesn’t know if he ought to switch off the feeling or fight it head on, drag it kicking and screaming into the present day. In the case file was a list of associates of Priest, and he’s searching for them, looking for what he can discern, weak spots and points of entry. He follows his hunches, trusts them more than he’s ever trusted another person. 

“Sorry, but - are you listening to  _ Sparks _ ?” Todd asks suddenly, his voice so abrasive in Dirk’s ear that he spills his coffee, resisting the immediate urge to swear. “I haven’t heard these songs since I was a kid.” 

“I’m afraid I’m rather late to the American music scene,” Dirk says, “what with that I’m British.”

“I mean, it’s fun to hear it again. It’s been so long, you know.” Todd sighs, and for a moment, Dirk feels rather sorry for him: he knows that sigh, that loneliness. Knows the feeling of stability in high school, the rug being pulled from under him afterwards. He may not be out there on his own driving a truck in the middle of an empty highway trying keenly to avoid death and with help nowhere near, but - he can understand that feeling. “God, I miss just - listening to music. Can’t do it anymore without worrying that someone will sneak up on me.” 

“Well, fear no more, I have sights on you and can tell you definitively that no one is near you right now. Unless there’s somebody hiding in the back seat. So let me be your maestro for this - wait, what time is it?” 

“It’s like, nine am.” 

“Let me be your maestro for this lovely morning drive! Skies are clear, temperatures are warm, all is looking good. What can I play for you, my dear sir?” Dirk can’t help himself but smile, tongue pressed against his cheek for a moment to try and suppress the urge. It isn’t often his job to speak to agents like this, and - it’s a little nice. 

“Okay, do you know  _ New Slang _ by The Shins?” 

“Oh, from  _ Garden State _ ?”

“Wait, you’ve seen that movie? Isn’t it so good?” 

Dirk was a depressed teenager with a love for The Shins; of course he’s seen it, he wants to say. He wants to say that the film held him together through sixth form, through tireless A-levels and unrewarding maths tests; wants to say that he cried the first time he watched it, cross-legged on the floor eating popcorn, and that  _ fuck, this hurts  _ resonated so much with him that he thinks about it all the time. That his universal constant might be that film. 

For a moment he thinks he might say it, because Todd is so doubtlessly going to die, but he doesn’t. 

“Yeah,” he says instead. “I liked it a lot.” He leans over his desk, changes the song, turns his speaker up so much that heads in the bunker turn, but Dirk thinks that he couldn’t care any less right now. He sits next to the speaker, the vibrations of the song running through his fingers where he has them clasped round part of it, and for a moment simply lets himself breathe.

He doesn’t look at the computers, not at the monitors or at the equipment in the branch or at his spilled coffee. He looks up at the ceiling, at the rows of lights, at the slate grey, and closes his eyes, listens to the song. 

And it’s just him and Todd, so many miles away, listening to this song together, each teetering at the edge of their own individual precipices. 

His breath comes a little easier, he thinks, when he sits back on his swivelling chair, gives it a cursory spin and then checks his monitors. It catches, then. “Todd,” he says. “There’s someone coming up behind you. They’re about two minutes down the highway and gaining fast. I think there are two people in that vehicle.” 

“Oh, shit,” Todd whines. “Oh, fuck, no, I’ve barely even fucking  _ gotten _ anywhere, Christ, Dirk, Jesus, help! I can’t die in fucking Georgia!” 

“Do you have an MI6 standard issue pen?” Dirk asks quickly. Todd groans.

“I can’t remember where I put that stupid pen!” 

“Okay, well, Todd, it isn’t  _ stupid _ , it’s an incredibly effective  _ explosive device _ that would  _ really help you right now _ !” Dirk chews his lip, his fingers hovering over his keyboard, thumbing in and out of camera views, turning over thoughts and ideas in his brain as fast as they come. There’s an idea he has that’s come to him immediately, and usually he trusts those, but - this is Todd’s life at stake. It hangs in the balance, and stupid ideas are the difference between Todd crossing the border into Alabama or being forever trapped in stupid Georgia. And Dirk, of course, does not always make the best decisions based on instinct. 

But they  _ have _ gotten him this far. 

“Todd,” he says, “lean out of the window and shoot their front tyres out.” 

“Lean out of the fucking - I’m the only person in the car, Dirk! I’ll crash, and then I’ll be dead before they’ve even gotten to me!”

“Excuse  _ me _ , Todd, but if you still had your standard issue exploding pen courtesy of this brilliant mind after MI6 tried to get rid of them, we wouldn’t  _ be _ in this situation because you would have an  _ exploding pen _ . If you’ve ever wondered why I just don’t like field agents, this is why, because none of you ever  _ listen _ to us because you think we’re all just a bunch of tech freaks, when really  you should be listening to your eccentric tech experts. Now lean out of that bloody window and blow their tyres out, Todd, because I would really like you to stay alive and make it back to Britain and not die on my watch. You seem like a nice enough man.” 

“I’m never going to get a straight shot leaning out of the window!”

“Todd, I’m a straight shot, and I’m gay and have two cats.” Dirk pauses for a moment, fidgets with his speakers as he turns them down, watches the car advance on the monitors and Todd pass by, the sound of him swearing passing like a breeze. “You see, Todd, I believe in the fundamental interconnectedness of all things, that the universe calls me to do something for a reason. And it usually works out pretty well. Just last week I got a free coffee, and once when I was younger I made out with someone while I was very drunk, and when I woke up sober, voilá, it was Thor! He was a very nice man. Very nice boyfriend. Unfortunately being a God is very demanding and we couldn’t stay together, and it turns out being the head of a branch of MI6 is also exceedingly demanding. So just trust me when I say  _ lean out of that window and shoot _ .” 

He waits for the reaction, but the reaction doesn’t come: Todd is patient, breathes a little and says “okay, I’m going in”. Dirk can hear the sound of the window rolling down, the shift of Todd’s clothing as he reaches into his waistband for his gun, the shaking in his breathing that Dirk thinks he might be replicating as he waits.  _ Breathe _ , Dirk thinks. In for four, out for four. He was taught a more official breathing method when he went through his compulsory field training, the only reason he knows how to shoot, but he can’t remember it. So he opts for numbers that feel manageable. 

It feels like both forever and no time at all when he hears three gunshots fire, and Todd shout, sitting upright and yelling. The pursuing vehicle crashes into view of one of the highway CCTV cameras, both of its front tyres hissing air and crumpling inward like deflated bread. “Oh, shit!” Todd yells. “I did it!” 

“Next time,” says Dirk, hiding his grin in the hand that covers his mouth for a moment, “don’t throw out the exploding pen. Do you think it’s exploded somewhere in Atlanta?” 

“Oh, God, I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m getting out of this state. Even dying in Alabama wouldn’t be that bad.” 

“Well,” says Dirk, “I’d really rather you didn’t die in Alabama, either.” 

  
  


Todd survives the flight to continental Europe, something Dirk has no control over and yet spends the night up following tirelessly. He doesn’t go home to sleep, just stops there to make sure his cats will stay fed and quickly showers; he grabs a coffee in his extra large keep cup, and a brownie while he’s there, and takes them both back with him to the bunker. He’s only changed his shirt, but has to submit to being frisked again. 

Silas has been standing in for him, and reports that Todd is rendezvousing with Friedkin and Curlish somewhere in Berlin; Dirk makes some joke that he doesn’t quite remember about  _ Atomic Blonde _ , and pops his headset back on. He oughtn’t mention that he watched  _ Atomic Blonde  _ purely for James McAvoy, even though he’s fairly sure Silas’s relationship with Trost is much further than platonic and so he’d understand Dirk’s reasoning. He switches the monitors back to his preference, honing in on the CCTV in Todd’s hotel room. According to Silas, opposing enemy agents are starting to circle; they need to plan, to smuggle him out and try and get him safely to the UK. The Americans have already clocked Friedkin and Curlish, and likely have more eyes than MI6 can necessarily account for (Dirk certainly isn’t taking the risk), so the documents won’t be safe with them either. They may also be double agents, Riggins has warned. For now, the action seems to be stalled until a plan can be decided upon, and Todd is in a room on his own, watching television. 

“Did you miss me?” Dirk asks, and Todd starts.

“Jesus,” he says, “no. Fine, yes. That other guy was dry.” Todd sits up on his bed, props himself up on his elbows. “Friedkin gave me his exploding pen, by the way, so you can stop complaining. I now have an explosive that I can write a nice letter with.” 

“They’re the best kind,” says Dirk. “I love a multipurpose object. I have a unicorn pen with some lip balm in.” 

“Are you serious about that, or are you playing up to the gay stereotype?” 

“I hate chapped lips and have to fill out reports, so take from that whatever you want. Do you have a serious question, Todd, or would you rather just keep watching  _ The Bachelor _ ?” 

“What- hey- that is  _ not _ what I’m watching!” Todd groans, rubbing at his forehead. “Fine. Serious question, Dirk, and you can Google this since you’re sitting on your computer: how long can you go without sleeping? When does the bad stuff start happening?” 

Todd doesn’t need to say that he’s too scared to sleep for Dirk to realise that that’s why he hasn’t. Dirk assumes that he doesn’t want to say that he’d had his eyes peeled to the window all the way across the sea, or that his hand had been only moments away from his gun. Dirk clicks his tongue and realises that it makes him sound like the daughter from  _ Hereditary _ , and promptly quietens. He goes to see films too often, he thinks. Though he doesn’t know if that’s a bad thing. There’s not much to do when you’re single and tired and even the son of Odin wouldn’t stay for you. 

“You should get some pizza,” Dirk says eventually. “I could order some in for you. What kind do you like? There are four highly-rated pizzerias in a ten minute radius that all deliver.” 

“If you can put a bomb in a pen, can you put one in a pizza?” 

“Pizza is sacrosanct; of course not. Todd.” 

“Shit, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll have a pepperoni and a soda.” 

“ _ A soda _ ? Do you want to be more specific, Todd, because the menu doesn’t exactly have a  _ random soda _ option to add to cart. Are we talking Dr Pepper or San Pellegrino?” 

“Oh my God, Dirk, it’s just a pizza.”

“And I take my pizza  _ very _ seriously, I’ll have you know.” 

Todd laughs, the sound airy and warm.  _ The breeze on an American summer day _ , Dirk thinks, wondering if that sort of metaphor would fit him right in to a section of online poetry. He just wants to hear that laugh, though, to keep Todd going. The paranoia must be eating him alive if even Dirk is starting to feel the strain of permanent uncertainty. “Just pick any. I don’t mind.” 

“Oh, your undiscerning taste buds.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

The pizza arrives in twenty minutes, and Todd watches more television as he eats it; he tells Dirk that he’s watching syndicated reruns of  _ Judge Judy _ , and talks a little bit about how his sister always loved her as a kid. It’s out of the blue, but surprisingly candid, a moment of tenderness, as if the realisation has finally come to him that Dirk might be the last person he gets the chance to tell these thoughts and stories to. He has the chance to not be alone, and so he talks about how Amanda always wanted to be as sassy as Judy, have her aura of confidence and level of control. Dirk tells him in turn how Britain has its own version of the show,  _ Judge Rinder _ , hosted by an equally witty gay barrister named Robert Rinder who according to Wikipedia is friends with Benedict Cumberbatch, and they talk about it at length, laugh about the differences and that the format carries through across the ocean. 

Todd falls asleep at some point, curled up at the foot of his double bed. Dirk lets him, and on his behalf, watches the corridors like a hawk; it isn’t that Todd is going to know that Dirk was looking out for him, but Dirk has felt his fear palpably across the line, and can’t help but feel as if it’s his  _ responsibility _ . This is the least he can do, he thinks. He plugs in some earphones and catches up on  _ Santa Clarita Diet _ on another monitor, but can barely take his eyes off the corridor; even the bellboys make him jumpy. 

Bellhops are, of course, exceedingly well-trained. Dirk’s seen  _ The Grand Budapest Hotel _ . 

He swaps headsets for a while, opens up a line with Friedkin and - well, he’s meant to call her Curlish, but they trained at the same time, and he’s always known her as trigger-happy Bart. Neither of them are particularly good planners and it takes a headache-inducing several hours to come up with a plan of action: Friedkin will stay in the hotel and take out enemy snipers, and Bart will drive Todd as far as possible. 

“Listen, can we get him, to, like - the Eurostar or something?” Bart asks. “Then we can just, you know, sit down and everything will be fine.”

“Unless there are enemy agents on the Eurostar,” Dirk points out.

“Yeah, well, like, I’ll be there. I’ll shoot ’em. Is there a Eurostar here?” 

“The closest one to you is in Amsterdam Centraal.” 

“Uhh, I don’t know where the fuck that is.” 

“Yes, I know none of you field agents have your head screwed on right, which is exactly what I’m here for. I shall direct you with the help of my darling friend and assistant Google Maps, who should only get us a little bit lost.” From the top drawer of his desk, Dirk takes a Starburst, chewing on it thoughtfully. “I’ll get the train tickets. Give Todd another hour, and then you go. Friedkin, I’ll tell you the location of all enemy snipers, so please pay attention, dear.” 

“Okay, sir,” Friedkin says cheerfully. “And I get to shoot them?”

“Absolutely. That’s what we want. Bart, can you make sure he writes this down?” 

“Ugh, fine,” she groans. 

  
  


In the hour interim, Dirk scans the surrounding area for enemy snipers and tries to pinpoint the location of as many agents tied to Priest as possible; it’s headache-inducing work, some of it, and not made easy with the proficiency of Priest’s security. He’s good. Very good. The chances of Todd making it across to the United Kingdom are starting to dwindle: if Priest’s security is this good, there’s no way he’s going to want to let a blip take him down. Dirk eats another Starburst, and works on some code sent over by GCHQ for a little while, leaving Todd a few extra minutes of sleep. 

He hums, and substitutes in the last letter of the code, not sure if he’s proud or not of what he’s produced.

_ Why does my nose hurt after concerts?  _

It wasn’t hard: once he eliminated the exterior symbols, it was essentially no more difficult than a Times crossword, and Dirk is a good puzzler. You can’t hack if you can’t puzzle, and you can’t work for Q branch if you can’t solve three sudokus while eating lunch. He emails the key and the translation back to GCHQ, and messages Bart to go get Todd and have Friedkin set up, and boils the wireless kettle across the room. 

This definitely happened in  _ Atomic Blonde _ , he thinks, just without him or the kettle. And in that world, the man with the knowledge dies. God, he hopes this works out. 

Once upon a time he was seventeen and discovered something he shouldn’t have known. He almost knows the feeling. MI6 had recruited him, then, still doing his A-levels and with a buzzed head of hair, the golden child:  _ Svlad _ . His information was protected just as soon as people knew he had it, used to arrest every single member of a terrorist cell and call it to a halt before it had even started. That’s the difference. He had been safe. He can’t even imagine the fear of knowing that everyone wanted him dead save an intelligence agency on the other side of the world. And Todd is just a small American who got in too deep and is so fresh he doesn’t even bother to hold on to his kit. 

It’s been said to Dirk before that he cares too much, latches on too quickly. But he’d rather he cared. 

Friedkin, despite it all, is a crack shot, and has all of the snipers Dirk has spotted dispatched before Todd and Bart have even made it down the stairs. He eyes the streets, shifting through local Berlin CCTV and security cameras; he has Google Maps open on another tab, calculating their route of choice. Dirk wonders if he ought to take a lengthier route, trip up any pursuers. 

“Are you going to tell me where I’m going?” Todd asks as he steps out of the front door of the hotel; it isn’t entirely clear if the question is subject to Bart or Dirk, but both of them stay tactically silent. “Okay, well, this better be good, and you better not be trying to kill me, because…” He peters out of steam. “I guess that would suck.” 

“The aim is to keep you alive, so it would suck for us too if you died,” says Dirk. “If that’s any consolation. I don’t know about Bart and Friedkin, but Friedkin’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the box and probably couldn’t double cross if he tried, and Bart seems happy enough just getting to shoot people for a living. If that’s any further consolation. Which I’m not sure it is, but I’m really trying here. They didn’t put this in the job description so I sure didn’t get any training for  _ I’m sorry you might die and I have no idea how to speak to you _ .” 

“What  _ is _ your job description?” Todd asks, taking a moment to readjust to European cars and jump into the passenger side. Bart looks at him, but seems to have noted that he’s not talking to her.

“They don’t really give you one. But I’m in charge of making all the gadgets,  _ and _ in charge of all the hacking, which does feel a bit much in the twenty-first century, but MI6 is frankly run by a bunch of  _ dinosaurs _ , so I do everything around here and don’t get much sleep. Which is fine. It’s like university, just without the degree or the well-rounded education or the student debt!” 

“Yeah, how old  _ are _ you?” Todd asks, and Dirk can hear him lower his seat cautiously as Bart starts the car. 

“You know, I don’t remember, but probably twenty-three. Tell Bart to turn left and be careful because there’s a suspicious man in a trench coat on the corner who might have a gun. Oh, and duck.” 

There’s the sound of shifting, Todd inevitably pinning himself down to the floor; a window is rolled down and the man in the trench coat is dispatched before he can even retrieve his gun. Bart floors it, ignores Todd shouting  _ left, left! _ ; Dirk lets her go, lets her cat and mouse some vehicles in pursuit as he tugs his left hand through his hair and scrolls through the city with his right. He wonders aimlessly for a moment, floating through the cloud of stress, wonders if he had it made more as a short-haired teenager with a penchant for stripes and Hawaiian shirts than he does now, a shirt and tie shooting across Berlin through screens. He feels useless, knowing that this is Bart’s job now, her area of expertise: she’s a shot even sharper than him, her bullets destined to hit as Dirk is destined to always find what he’s looking for. Or somewhere thereabouts. 

“Couldn’t you have found me someone who can drive?” Todd yelps; Dirk would find it in himself to sympathise if he weren’t also a reckless driver, a depressed crash hazard. 

“Todd,  _ you _ might be the only spy that can drive. And technically, Bart  _ can _ drive, she just does it like she has a death wish. Maybe our driving instructor just made us all unhinged during training?” 

“Wait, does MI6 just have one guy dedicated to teaching you how to drive? Do you even  _ need _ to know how to drive?” 

“I also know how to defuse a bomb, also a skill I haven’t yet been able to utilise. But no, there isn’t: there’s someone in charge of general training, and both Bart and I couldn’t drive, so he had to teach us that.” 

“You guys learned together?” 

“We joined around the same time, so yes, we did! Me and everyone’s favourite murderer are actually very good sort-of friends. I say  _ sort of _ , because she tried to kill me a few times, which wasn’t very nice, but we worked that misunderstanding out. I would trust her not quite with my life but with a good deal else!” 

“That’s… almost reassuring.” 

“Thank you! Am I doing a good job yet? Oh, tell Bart to take the second exit on that roundabout because there’s a very angry looking gunman in a car on the third who might have a go at shooting you.” 

“Do you ever have any  _ good _ news?”

“The good news is that the two of you are eight hours away from the Eurostar!” 

“That’s not good news!” 

“I’m sorry! I don’t really have anything for you, Todd, as much as I would like to! But you’ve made it out of America, I’ve been stalling flights and trains to try and prevent Priest’s people from getting anywhere near you, you have two of our best if not vaguely unhinged agents with you though one is currently still doing a phenomenal job sniping and cleaning up the mess, you’re getting nearer to the UK by the minute, and you haven’t died yet, which feels like a great sign! We are doing our bloody  _ best _ here which we don’t have to be, but we are, because we want you alive, and that is  _ not _ just for those documents. I want to see you alive, Todd, because you’re frankly both too young to die and very nice to have a conversation with, considering most people here won’t even so much as look me in the eye! So if you could just  _ stop  _ complaining, we are doing our best here. We are  _ trying _ .” 

Todd goes quiet. Dirk knew he would fuck this up. He’s not good with people. Even Thor thought so, and Thor was not a person so much as a Norse God. 

“Alright,” Todd sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just-” 

“I know,” says Dirk.

  
  


It takes a lot of time and a lot of directions, but almost nine hours and a few pit stops at gas stations later, Todd and Bart arrive at Amsterdam Centraal: Friedkin is waiting for them there, having successfully managed to use the rather more normal trains through Silas’s guidance. Dirk talks to Todd most of the way, but passes out for a few hours, and wakes up to a cup of coffee on the desk, an English breakfast, and a rather sympathetic-looking Ken. Dirk hasn’t seen him in about two years, not since Dirk learned both how to build and disable IEDs (if Dirk ever makes it out of MI6, he could certainly move into a career as an Ammunition Technical Officer), and he’s certainly never seen Ken look  _ sympathetic _ before. Bemused and frustrated, yes, but not this. 

“What are you doing down here?” Dirk asks, yawning and scrubbing at his eyes. 

“Riggins sent me,” says Ken. “Not much training going on, so I’m back in admin.” 

“Ah,  _ admin _ .” 

“They’re paying me enough not to complain, so I won’t. But I’m in charge of looking through those documents when they arrive, so Riggins sent me to check how you were, and…” Ken sighs. “You being asleep isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Thank you,” Dirk says sheepishly. 

“Thank Silas. He got you the food. Said you’d need the energy. I’m just here to wake you up.”

“Did Riggins really send you  _ just _ to wake me up?” 

“Why would I make that up?” 

Dirk sighs, wondering if Riggins will ever quite consider him responsible enough to run a department without being checked on constantly. Probably not until he’s thirty, if Dirk makes it that long. Sometimes running off to the army and becoming an ATO seems like a better option, or just becoming a hermit, or becoming a private detective. 

“How’s Bart?” Ken asks. Dirk is still yet to figure out whether or not they’re dating, and the work sweepstakes are split fairly evenly. 

“Driving recklessly and killing people,” says Dirk. “You know. The usual. Bart-y things.” 

Ken smiles, and nods. “Don’t fall asleep again,” he says as a last warning, and disappears off somewhere, to do whatever it is that Ken does all day: Dirk has the vague feeling that it’s more than just  _ admin _ , but he decides not to read too much into it in favour of tucking into his emergency breakfast and knocking back as much coffee as possible. Silas definitely got him an extra shot, he thinks, as the caffeine smashes into him, flooding his veins with energy. He limbers up for a moment, goes on a little wander around the branch and does a few stretches, and starts playing Public Image Ltd. through his speakers as he watches the train’s progress. 

He really hopes that nothing goes wrong on the Eurostar; if nothing else, it might ruin someone’s holiday. 

“Still alive, Todd?” he asks. 

“Not if this mob of children kills me first,” Todd replies. 

“They  _ are _ quite vicious, I find. More or less vicious than all the assassins after your life, I wonder?” 

Things seem to go well, save the part where the triad of agents have to fight past an entire school trip; they settle on their seats, and Todd has a sandwich for lunch that he bought from the station while Bart and Friedkin share chocolate. Dirk has bought them seats right in the middle of the security camera view (not purposefully, but he’s sure it’s not coincidence, either; he was  _ meant _ to buy those seats), and makes himself another cup of coffee with a rising sense of glee. They’re on the train. They’re almost there, almost in London, almost close enough for Dirk to wander across the street and pick them up. 

Well, they’re a few hours away yet, but he can be optimistic. 

He arrives back at his desk with a fresh mug of coffee, stirs in some sugar, and is mid-way through a quiz on how successful his imaginary teen Netflix show would be when his monitor buzzes with an alert. Dirk knows what it is before he even reaches down to jab the screen to life: someone has the train, of course someone has the train, stupid Dirk, why didn’t he think that  _ someone could stop the train _ ; and if someone can stop the train, someone can switch off the lights like a shitty dementor so their assassin can ambush Todd, or whatever other horrible train stuff hackers can do. Dirk rides the Tube too often to want to think about it. 

“Dirk,” Todd says slowly, sounding as if his soul is leaking out through his shoes. Dirk chews his bottom lip. “Lights are off.” 

“Shit,” says Dirk. “Um, that’ll be someone - hacking the power grid, I think. I’m going to delegate that. I’ll try to get the train started. Friedkin is  _ meant _ to have an industrial torch, but you were  _ meant _ to have an exploding pen, so I guess just use whatever. Please don’t die, Todd, please just hang on in there.” 

“That’s the goal,” says Todd. He’s beginning to sound strained, and Dirk can’t blame him. 

If nothing else, Dirk thinks, Priest is  _ bloody  _ efficient. He defers sorting the lights out to Silas, who is much better at these sorts of active situations than Dirk (who once accidentally let a hacker into MI6 upon distraction by a particularly fascinating puzzle), and sifts through CCTV footage; everything in the present is blacked out, meaning he can be of no current use to Todd, but he skims back in time and finds the driver. There’s something peculiar about him, Dirk thinks, and zooms in, trying to get a peek at any features when the driver calls the train to a halt and stands up, making for the door. Dirk gasps.

“Todd, Priest is on the train!” 

“Can this get any fucking worse?” Todd shrieks; Dirk is not sure it could, actually. Though he might make it worse, and he knots his fingers for a moment before he lets himself say it.

“One of you has to go start the train.” 

“That was  _ not _ an invite to make it worse!” 

“It doesn’t have to be  _ you _ ! Send Bart!” 

“I’m regretting every single one of my life decisions right now,” Todd groans, and when he speaks again, it isn’t to Dirk anymore. “Okay, right, fine. We need to get to the front of the train and start it again. Bart, you and me can do that; uh, you, Friedkin, watch our backs so no-one sneaks up behind us. Let’s go and just finish this stupid thing.” 

Dirk feels a swell of pride, and then a sense of uselessness.

There’s nothing he can do now. Todd is on his own. Silas is doing something, somewhere, but Dirk doesn’t know what that is or how soon it’ll switch the lights in the train back on; he should find out how that’s going, he thinks, but half of him wants to dig into the Priest file and make sure there isn’t anything Todd doesn’t know. He hums, starting up Nina Simone’s  _ Sinnerman _ on his Spotify without even realising; it’s his stress song, and it raises the heads of a few other workers. Dirk takes a swig of coffee, then gets up, saunters across the branch as best he can to Silas. He tries not to look as bothered as he is: he still can’t really hear what’s going on, just Todd’s nervous breath in his ear.

“How close are we to turning the lights on?” he asks. Silas looks up from his computer, hums.

“The power grid has been switched off and someone is trying to stop me from getting in,” he says. “I’m almost there. But the train isn’t going to start again until I get it back on.” 

Dirk bites his tongue to resist the urge to swear, but bites it so hard he hurts himself and yelps. 

“Dirk?” Todd says. 

“Sorry,” says Dirk. “Hot tea.” 

Silas, to his absolute credit, says nothing about this interaction. Two queers in MI6, Dirk thinks; they stick together. He just taps more at his keyboard and chews at his gum; Silas has three packs of it on his desk to keep him focused. Dirk is a lollipop man himself. “How’s your man? Todd? Are Bart and Hugo with him?” 

_ Hugo _ ? Is that Friedkin’s first name? Dirk didn’t know that, and something in his stomach churns. It’s the sort of thing he  _ should _ know: this is Friedkin, who has been on just about every mission Dirk has been assigned to, who never questions being sent off to help. He’s dim, sure, but sat in the passenger seat of the car when Dirk was being driven to MI6 and kept insisting he had a shot while Riggins argued he shouldn’t be shooting anybody. Dirk swallows. Hugo. Someone’s son, and he had never thought to learn his first name. Things are just too fast here. The second week after Panto’s assignment as double-oh-two, he had been shot twice in the shoulder and spent two weeks in the hospital, all on account of Silas overlooking a sniper as he hadn’t slept in three days. Dirk figures it’s why they’re so close: Silas had visited him in the hospital, apologetic, and they had gotten along. Well, clearly.

Silas taps his arm. “Are you okay, Dirk? Did you eat?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Dirk says politely, and on instinct. “Sorry. I’m just - I’m tired, and maybe thinking too much, which you would think would be helpful but actually  _ really  _ isn’t.” He folds his arms, shivers. It’s always cold down here but someone must have turned the heating down. “I feel useless. Like he’s going to die and there’s nothing I can do.” 

“There’s nothing you can do  _ now _ ,” says Silas, “but you got him this far. You got him through  _ Berlin _ , Dirk. You have done so much. Don’t beat yourself up. It isn’t fair.” He gestures to his side. “Sit down. Let’s get this grid back on. That’s all we can do.” 

Dirk does not help much with the grid, instead opting to try some breathing techniques on his phone, but Silas doesn’t seem to mind: he works almost as efficiently as Dirk himself would, and Dirk decides he’s due a promotion and that he’ll bring this up to Riggins soon. His fingers glide over the keyboard: Dirk is a touch typist, but Silas opts for two fingers, and yet seems barely slower for it. There’s something about the way he types that makes it feel as if he and the keyboard have never been apart. In Dirk’s ear, still, he hears Todd breathe, mumble support to himself. 

He starts when he hears the not-so-faint  _ bang!  _ of a gunshot, and then silence. Silas looks over at him. 

“Dirk,” he says. Dirk says nothing, swallows. Even the rattle of Silas’s forefingers and thumb has gone quiet, little left for Dirk to hear but the music still emanating from his speakers and the tinnitus dancing on the high notes of his right ear. 

“Keep going,” Dirk says to Silas, when he finds his voice. Another gunshot rings, and he feels as if he’s going to throw up. He doesn’t know what’s happening and who, if anyone, is hurt, but none of it feels entirely okay to him. Todd, just a liaison who opened a door and fell in too deep; Bart, Dirk’s friend, the girl he’d spent months of training and briefing with who he remembers eating with every Thursday lunch at a nearby Nando’s; and Friedkin, stupid Friedkin, with his beaming smile and determination to do the right thing even if he wasn’t always sure what that was. None of them deserve this, he thinks. This fear. 

“Dirk,” Todd breathes. “He’s dead, Dirk. I killed him.” 

“Oh, my dear.” 

Osmund Priest, the man who had taught Dirk true fear in the moments before MI6 had found him and clamped their jaws around him. Dirk remembers it vividly: the jagged scar on his face, the feel of his hand across Dirk’s shorn hair and the touch of the gun to his throat. The pain of being shot and the ache he still feels in his shoulder, just before it rains. Gone. All of these things could be forgotten, now, wisped away; Dirk knows they’ll thrum in his mind forever, never far from his waking thoughts. 

Todd’s voice shakes when he speaks again in some blend of emotions that Dirk could never begin to unravel, and wouldn’t try to. “Can you - can you switch the lights on, Dirk? I just want to go home.” 

“We’re working on it. Almost there.” Dirk hears his own voice waver and feels Silas’s hand brush his arm. “I’m proud of you, Todd. It’s nearly over.” He takes a deep breath, presses the buzzer that connects to Riggin’s office as he talks. “You still need to go and get the train started. It won’t run until the power is on, but I need both of those things before we’re going anywhere.” 

The rest of it becomes a little bit of a haze: Silas switches the grid back on and the train hums and groans back to life, resuming its progress along the tracks. Dirk walks Todd through how to pilot the train, something that he definitely never expected to have to do, and also receives a visit from Riggins in the form of an elegant woman called Farah Black, a high-ranking CIA operative who informs Dirk that, along with her and Riggins, he will be escorting Todd from St Pancras to MI6. Dirk’s house will also serve as a place for Todd to stay, keeping him safe and outwith hotels. Dirk is not quite sure how he feels about this, but nods along. He doesn’t  _ object _ to having Todd in his house, per se; but the idea of having someone he has an overwhelming crush on (saving someone from death, Dirk finds, is always a good method of quickfire bonding) in his house is the sort of thing that sounds like it might lead to inevitable disaster. After this pronouncement, Silas orders the entirety of Q-branch pizza, which Dirk eats cross-legged on his chair, not sure he trusts himself to take his eyes off the monitor anymore. He has another tab open of estimated arrival times, and watches time creep on, the numbers on the bottom right of the monitor shifting closer to the time that the Eurostar is estimated to arrive. 

God, Dirk thinks, he’s  _ tired _ . More tired than he has been in a long time. 

About twenty minutes before the arrival of the train, Dirk slings his leather jacket on, tucks a gun into his waistband, puts Silas in charge in his absence, and heads for the station. It’s the last stretch of the afternoon, and London shines in its summer glory, tourists and locals in sun dresses and shorts weaving across the pavements. London is Dirk’s favourite city in the world: he feels at home in its streets, knows them like the back of his hand, can disappear and reappear at will. He knows all the baristas in the nearest Starbucks, has an Oyster card with dog-eared edges, falls asleep to the rocking of the Tube. He wonders if Todd will feel the beauty and amazement of London, the first city of safety. That’d be nice. Dirk just wants to  _ share _ things with him, moreso than just near-death experiences involving Osmund Priest. 

Farah and Riggins arrive sometime after him, more reserved in their clothing. Farah congratulates him and shakes his hand, something that fills Dirk with a sense of immense and immeasurable pride; his work tends to slide unnoticed, save the occasional thanks from a double-oh for packing them with a particularly useful piece of gear, and this is probably his first official congratulations since starting the job. Maybe with the exception of that time he had his house broken into by a strange bald man and he hit the assailant over the head with a frying pan; according to Riggins, he’d been a member of a pervasive enemy organisation, and he seemed to be both impressed and amused at Dirk’s takedown. Dirk had been less amused and hadn’t slept for a week. He had also promptly installed so many locks that it took him five minutes to get into his own house for the year before he started removing the excesses. 

He hadn’t wanted to take them off, but Riggins had told him that it would be good for him. Each one took at least a month to get used to, and three locks on the front door still doesn’t feel like enough.

St Pancras is one of those stations that’s easy to get confused in, even when you’ve known it all your life: there are hundreds of people spilling out onto various platforms, from the boring to the bright-haired and eccentric, and yet still Dirk manages to spot their three immediately. There’s something about them that just seems to stand out among the throngs of people: Todd, short and in a flannel shirt; Bart, her hair a usual state and her outfit what seems to be a random assortment of clothes piled together; and Friedkin, looking incredibly confused. Dirk revels in the familiarity of the sight of them, ignores what must be touches of blood spatter on Bart’s white shirt. Todd is saved by the virtue of already wearing red. 

Todd is introduced formally by Farah to both Riggins and Dirk, dazed as he is. “This is Svlad Cjelli,” Farah says, gesturing to Dirk: Dirk smiles, reaches out and shakes Todd’s hand, clammy with the sweat of who-knows-long without a shower, and probably with the weight of a gun. Dirk doesn’t mind it. “Head of Q-branch. You’ll be staying with him tonight.”

“He has a proclivity for pizza,” Riggins advises. 

Todd doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking to Farah or Riggins until they arrive at the MI6 bunker, and he hovers by Dirk’s side, casting him looks every now and then before he manages to summon the will to speak. Seeing Todd in person, too, is odd: Dirk is used to seeing him from security cameras, but in person he seems a lot gentler, as if he’d accidentally fallen into spying. “I thought your name was Dirk,” he says. 

“It’s my spy name,” says Dirk. “Like James Bond. Or is that his actual name?” 

“So - Svlad?” Todd pauses, seems to notice something in Dirk’s expression. He shifts. “Or would you prefer Dirk?” 

“Svlad’s just not very  _ nice _ , is it? It’s a murderer name. I sound like a vampire, or somebody who’s going to stab you, at the very least, which would be fine if I was the shooty sort of spy, not the one who sits at their computer cradling some coffee and thinking about their cats.” 

“It’s unusual,” Todd offers, which seems to be code for that he likes it. Dirk still hasn’t quite decided on which side of the fence he sits.  _ Svlad _ is a name that he’s not sure has ever fit him: it’s another country’s, another boy’s. He hasn’t really been Svlad since the title of Quartermaster was first assigned to him, but he’s not sure he’s quite  _ Dirk _ yet either. That feels like the name of somebody who isn’t about to lapse into depression if he’s not careful. He won’t be Dirk until he takes the locks off his fire escape. “Do I - do I have to go through a debriefing? Because I’ve had a long couple of days, and I’m really tired.” 

“Once you’ve given us the documents, you’re free to go with Svlad and sleep for as long as either of you need to. Svlad, we’ll pay your leave; call us before you come back in and we’ll arrange a meeting.” Farah smiles at Dirk, and he musters a smile back. Paid leave  _ does _ sound nice. “I assume your flat is secure.”

“Very secure,” says Riggins. “Mr Brotzman will be perfectly safe, I can attest to that.” 

Ken is waiting for them when they arrive, ostensibly to make sure that Todd’s USB of documents is safe and malware-free, but when Riggins and Farah leave to the next room to make coffee, Bart hugs him while he mumbles something about being glad that she’s okay. Dirk wishes he had someone that worried about him, and from the flash in Friedkin’s eyes, it seems that he does, too. 

Todd is dismissed once the USB has been confirmed as safe, and follows Dirk through the streets and back into another train station. “Can’t we be done with trains?” he asks, sounding so pitiful that Dirk ponders for a moment ordering an Uber instead before remembering it’s more expensive. On the Tube, he can just lend Todd his Oyster card and pay contactless himself.

“It’s just the Tube,” Dirk says softly. “The worst thing on it is rush hour traffic, and Londoners.” 

“You’re a Londoner,” says Todd. Dirk shrugs.

“My quality is dubious,” he says with a smile that he doesn’t really feel, following his feet to his platform as a train rushes by in a flurry of wind and sound. Dirk loves the sound of trains, though less so the feeling of being jammed among commuters. Todd looks distinctly uncomfortable, pressed up against Dirk, forced to shuffle aside at every stop to let people on or off; he has the face of a tourist, Dirk thinks, and has to stop himself from laughing. Locals just look bored on the Tube, but Todd looks like he’s ready to throw himself out of the doors. 

Dirk, thankfully, lives only a few stops away. 

“Is it always that bad?” Todd asks as they finally emerge onto the street; he quite struggles with the concept of standing on the right, and Dirk has to lightly push him into line. 

“It’s rush hour,” says Dirk. 

“Why don’t you drive?” 

“In  _ London _ ? It’s worse than the Tube. At least the Tube gets you somewhere.”

“And you guys complain about America?” 

“We have free healthcare. It gives us an immediate monopoly. Whatever you say, I can say  _ free healthcare _ , and the UK wins.” 

Dirk’s flat is on the top floor, up so many flights of stairs that it always seems to immediately burn off his pizza calories. He taps in the six-digit code to one of his locks (it had been eight-digit when he first installed it, but Dirk’s capacity for remembering numbers seems to stop at about six exactly) and unlocks the rest with three keys, pushing open his door to the sound of his cats yowling at him. They brush against his legs, covering his trousers in a fine coat of hair. 

He lets Todd pick something out of his wardrobe to wear instead of his bloodied shirt, and feeds the cats, resisting the urge to pick them up and nuzzle them. There’s something formulaic about being home: switching the oven on, cracking open a bottle of cheap Sainsbury’s wine, filling the cats’ water dish. It feels odd after so many days of chaos, of sitting in the fluorescent lights of the bunker flicking between security cameras and marquees of information, and he runs a hand through his hair, wondering if he  _ really _ likes this when he hears Todd clear his throat.

Dirk turns round. Todd is standing in the doorway, wearing Dirk’s very old high school leavers hoodie, emblazoned with the names of hundreds of people Dirk doesn’t even claim to remember. He’s sure he bought it just because it was comfortable, huge, and also a terrific shade of light blue, and Todd seems utterly swamped by it. 

Which is kind of hilarious, and more than a little bit heartwarming, after all they’ve been through. 

“Your wardrobe is ridiculous,” says Todd, sounding affronted. 

Possible retorts flow through Dirk’s mind; he thinks of at least twenty things that he could say, but can’t quite bring himself to say them. There’s something about Todd, just standing there looking grumpy and exhausted and with his hair a mess and Richard Macduff the cat curling around his feet. 

In possibly the bravest thing he’s ever done in his life, he takes a few steps forward and kisses Todd, who he half-expects to throw him off and sleep on the sofa. Todd instead reaches up, placing his hands on Dirk’s face and kissing back. Dirk is willing to bet that this is all adrenaline on both of their parts, but is hardly going to complain when one of Todd’s hands finds the small of his back, or when they start guiding him. 

Todd breaks away. “Wait, where’s your bedroom?” 

“Todd, I have, like, three rooms,” Dirk mumbles breathlessly, but pulls Todd with him through one door and another. 

Todd calls him Dirk, which makes him feel a little like he’s floating. 

  
  


Dirk isn’t really sure how long he sleeps, and doesn’t check the clock when he wakes up: he stretches and sits up and wonders where Todd has gone. He isn’t anywhere in the capsule flat, but it isn’t as if Dirk can call up Riggins, because he’d have to admit to losing Todd, and possibly also to sleeping with him, and while he’s sure it isn’t technically illegal or even a problem to sleep with a colleague according to MI6 standards, Riggins definitely won’t appreciate it. And he doesn’t know Farah well, but he’s pretty sure she won’t appreciate that he’s sleeping with her agent, even though Dirk  _ did _ save him, too, which should put him in  _ some _ standing. 

Dirk doesn’t have Todd’s phone number, and Todd’s earpiece is on his nightstand, so he supposes there’s no way of finding him. 

He really, really hopes that Todd hasn’t left. Or that Todd regrets it. And he hopes he hasn’t fucked anything up. Dirk is good at fucking things up, and not so good at fixing them. 

It turns out that Todd has both eaten the pizza in Dirk’s fridge and fed the cats, so even if he has just abandoned Dirk, he has done it in a manner that’s almost gentlemanly. Dirk sighs. People let him down nicely, but it’s the letting him down part that seems to be eating into his energy. 

To make himself feel better, he has a shower, and uses up a quarter of a bottle of Lush shower gel, and does a face mask. 

Todd is unloading a Sainsbury’s bag in the kitchen when Dirk emerges: a bottle of Coke, some chocolate, more frozen pizza, some toiletries. Dirk stops and stares at him; a few too many thoughts go by at once for him to verbalise, so instead he says, “how did you get back in?” 

“You left your keys on the table next to the combination for your lock,” Todd says apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you up just to go to the grocery store.”

Dirk’s eyes fall for a moment. “I thought you left.”

Todd lets out a laugh that Dirk can’t quite gauge: is it shock, or a laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought? “You thought I left? After you saved me? Oh, my God, you’re an idiot, in the kind of nice way, but also, you’re an idiot.” He walks over, flings his arms around Dirk in that kind of unashamedly American hug, the warm kind that they’ve been doing all their lives and can’t imagine anyone not knowing. “Sorry, last night was too much, wasn’t it?”

“I mean, you  _ did _ almost die, so it seemed pretty fair. But it wasn’t too much. I liked it.” Dirk decides not to add  _ though we’re not doing that again anytime soon, because I’m still exhausted and that thoroughly knackered me and I expect I will take upwards of a week to recover _ , and instead pleasantly kisses Todd’s forehead. “Thank you for the pizza, Todd, you are a  _ sweetie _ .” 

“Bart said that it was your favourite thing in the world.” 

“Bart is very right about that.” 

Dirk cracks open a bottle of wine; he’s still not sure what time of day it is, as every single analogue clock in his house is broken or at least three hours behind, so he doesn’t feel too guilty about the possibility he’s doing some daytime drinking. Besides which, he’s a brunch fiend anyway and is used to mimosas before twelve. It’s been a long time since he last went for some central London brunch, though; he’s sure the wine mums miss him. They’ve declared themselves Dirk’s mothers already, which he does appreciate. He pours himself a glass, and offers Todd one. He looks at it for a moment, then nods. 

“Is Bart actually your friend?” Todd asks. 

“We aren’t what you would call  _ close _ ,” Dirk says, “but we  _ are _ friends. I mean, we don’t really have any shared interests or anything but we did share some life experiences, and she used to stay in this flat before she found her own. London prices are bad. I’m  _ very  _ broke. Why?” 

“She just seemed to know a lot about you when we were talking on the train. She said that if anyone could get us back, it was you, and that you have a knack for always completing missions.” 

Dirk grins mischievously. “Why, were you asking about me?” 

Todd goes red, and says nothing. 

For a while, they don’t talk about anything serious: Dirk eats some chocolate, they watch the first  _ Captain America _ film, and flit in and out of naps. Todd seems to have made friends with Richard Macduff, who sits pleasantly on his lap and purrs loudly; Todd scratches behind his ears every now and then, and when he thinks that Dirk isn’t looking, nuzzles him and promptly sneezes. Dirk’s other cat, Catrick Swayze, enters the room every now and then, but sits in the corner and sulks. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Todd asks, pointing. 

“He’s a grumpy twat,” Dirk says. “Don’t worry. He’ll get used to you, eventually, and then he’ll be all over you.” 

“What even are their names? Are they both boys?” 

“You’re holding Richard Macduff, and that over there is Catrick Swayze.”

Todd doesn’t want to laugh, but he does. He gestures to the ball of fluff in his lap. “Richard Macduff? Is that a British joke?” 

“No,” says Dirk. “He just seemed like a very serious cat who deserved a serious name. And, of course, it turns out that he’s just a snugglefest and Catrick Swayze is the one who isn’t very fun, but I didn’t know that at the time, of course, and so they have rather opposite names, which I suppose almost works because it makes it a little bit funnier that they don’t match their personalities.” He blows a kiss to Catrick Swayze, who looks away and stalks out of the room. “Do you have pets?” 

“When I was a toddler, my parents had a dog. King. You can see him in some of the family photos, but I don’t remember him.” 

“Did you know that there are scientifically proven benefits to petting a cat or a dog? Technically, I’m providing  _ emotional support _ .”

Todd snorts. 

There’s more sleeping: another  _ Captain America _ movie which stops and starts so much that Dirk loses all semblance of plot, if he had known what was going on the first place, and at some point they must move to the bed, because the first time Dirk is aware of being fully,  _ really _ conscious and awake, he’s curled into Todd with the duvet skew-whiff around them. His shirt is also completely unbuttoned, and the last clean white shirt he has,  _ and _ he has a hickey. He sort of remembers Todd kissing him there, but if he’s totally honest, he’d thought it was a dream. 

These kinds of things - good things (though whether or not this is  _ good _ is hard to quantify) - just don’t happen to Dirk so often. Not in his life or in his line of work.

“What was on the USB?” he asks. Todd looks up at him, and sighs. He always looks a little burdened, and Dirk feels bad for asking. “I wasn’t told.”

“It was a lot of documents and files and videos and stuff that incriminated Priest as a war criminal and gang leader,” Todd says. “The kind of thing that meant he could’ve gotten arrested and tried and put away in Guantanamo for life, or something. So, you know, very valid stuff to kill me over, but it didn’t make me appreciate it much.” 

“I, for one, am very glad that you’re alive, and think killing you would be very invalid.” 

Todd laughs. “You barely know me.” 

Dirk shrugs. “If you tell me your life story, that could change.” 

Todd leans forward and kisses him. 

“Screw you,” he says. “I’m not even  _ sentimental _ .” 

“Say what you will, but I’m definitely enjoying this sentimentality.” 

It’s true: Todd really doesn’t  _ look _ like the sentimental type, and there’s always something half-hesitant about him when he makes a move on Dirk - but there’s also something quite unashamed and vulnerable there, too. And Dirk isn’t sure where exactly they’re going, but he’ll let Todd take the lead. 

  
  


After another lazy day of simply enjoying Todd’s continued existence on Earth, Dirk finally arranges an afternoon meeting with Farah and Riggins. This also involves trying to find sensible clothes in a wardrobe sans work clothes, all of which are currently spinning in the washing machine and won’t be near ready in time for the meeting. Dirk is starting to understand Todd’s view of his wardrobe. 

“Do you  _ really  _ wear all this stuff?” Todd asks, sifting through Hawaiian shirt after Hawaiian shirt. 

“Usually I wear white shirts,” Dirk says. “For work. It’s hard enough to have people listen to you when you’re an enthusiastic gay millennial, but anything else would just be overkill, and I wasn’t sure if there were  _ technically  _ any rules on what I could and couldn’t wear, so I stuck on the safe side. All of this stuff in here is what I used to wear when I was younger and before I got the job as Quartermaster. I think I really had it going on when I was a teenager.” Dirk pauses, his hand faltering where it’s holding the edge of the wardrobe door. Todd touches his hand for a moment. 

“Dirk?” he says softly. 

“Yes, Todd?” 

“A few bad years don’t mean that everything is going to be bad forever.” 

They bump their foreheads together and stay like that for a while, just close. Todd is the first to pull back, examining Dirk’s wardrobe with that last peal of resignation, and he picks out an obnoxiously bright beach-themed Hawaiian shirt. Dirk goes for a black-and-white striped tee which makes him look like an eccentric prisoner, and retrieves a pair of paint-splattered Doc Marten oxfords, and they sit and make the perfect couple for children to gawp politely at on the Tube. 

“Why is your base underground?” Todd asks.

“Well, the overground one got blown up and that was what killed the last Quartermaster, so it’s all in the interests of  _ safety _ , and making sure I never know what time it is so that I always work overtime.” Dirk puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s safer. It’s all in old World War 2 tunnels, so everything is built for protection. What’s the CIA like?” 

“Really, really high up. Or maybe it’s because I’m just an agent that they’ve put me on the top floors, but I can’t look out the windows. I feel queasy.”

“Are you scared of heights? I hate heights. Can’t do rollercoasters.” 

“Not really, but you know, the fiftieth floor.” 

“I’m sorry, the  _ fiftieth _ ?” 

They’ve come far enough into the base to have reached the outside of Riggins’s office, outside which Farah is standing, hands neatly clasped behind her back. There’s a slight exasperation in her eyes, Dirk feels, and tries not to ruminate on it too much. “Gentlemen,” she says. “Good timing. A case has just come into us this morning from the CIA, and most of the suspects are based right here in the UK, so I’m hoping you two got a lot of sleep, because you’ve got work to do.” 

“What about the USB?” Todd asks as Farah hands Dirk a binder folder full of information; he’s the one whose job it is to parse the facts and track people down, of course. Todd will just be the gun, so he doesn’t get anything useful save what Dirk is going to tell him, and Farah in the briefing. 

“We’re looking into who else it can incriminate,” Farah says with a smile. “Don’t worry. That wasn’t all useless. But you did the big job, and took down Priest, with less of the usual legal problems.” 

Dirk is already heading for Q-branch, itching to get back to typing again. What can he say? He likes it. He’s good at it. There’s something in the work that’s his calling: he knows what he’s looking for, always trips over just the right information; and though sometimes he kind of thinks it’s too much, all the death and destruction, it also brings life, and new things. Like Todd, and Todd being alive, and Todd being in Dirk’s house, and all that kissing- well, Dirk won’t ruminate on it too long. 

He touches Todd’s hand. “I’m going to go get started,” he says, and tugs, but Todd shakes his head.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he says. “I just have to talk to Farah. In private.” He twists his hand, puts his on top of Dirk’s, and gently moves it away. Dirk wants to take his hand again, hold it and squeeze it and just have Todd  _ with _ him, but there’s a part of him that knows he’ll just be feeding into bad habits if he forces Todd to be with him all the time. 

He pouts a little, for good measure, and heads down the corridor.

“Is he going to be talking to me all the time again?” Todd asks.

“Is that a problem?” Farah asks, raising her eyebrows.

Todd thinks about it for a few more seconds than was strictly necessary, then sighs. “Guess not,” he says. If anything, at least Dirk is always around for advice on where the nearest pizza place is, or cat stories, or stupid shirts, or just to be a voice to listen to. 

He thumbs one of the buttons on his shirt, and wanders down the corridor, calling out to Dirk to see if he still has any more of those exploding pens.

**Author's Note:**

> just for the curious: the code that dirk deciphers that reads "why does my nose hurt after concerts?" is actual code by frank sidebottom that was recently decoded for the first time by the gchq, who apparently had a lot of trouble with it
> 
> i had a little bit of trouble writing this and was a little bit depressed while it was going on, so i'm really sorry that it isn't my greatest work, but i fINISHED it, and that's the most important part !!! and thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
